


Comfort and Joy

by domysticated, evilgiraff



Category: Twilight Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-18
Updated: 2010-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:23:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domysticated/pseuds/domysticated, https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilgiraff/pseuds/evilgiraff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>12 days that can make or break a relationship. 12 days that can lead to hope or despair. Which path will Rosalie and Edward choose? Written for the 12 days of Christmas writing challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 14th December (Monday)

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a little story (a short story? A novella?) we wrote for the Twilight Girls Next Door 12 Days of Christmas Writing Challenge. It was wicked fun but hard work! We hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed writing it.
> 
> To see the prompts we used for each chapter, as well as the other stories in this challenge, please visit www (dot) twigirlsnextdoor (dot) com/2010/11/12-days-of-christmas-writing-challenge (dot) html
> 
> Huge thanks to the inestimable Twanza and Mr. Giraffe for lending us their beta skills!
> 
> Merry Christmas!
> 
> Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight; we just play with it, and spell it British.

**Day 1, prompt 2**

_Rosalie_

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the living room window. I should be in bed—it's two a.m., too late for a Monday—but I can't peel my eyes away from the snow that keeps on falling, eerie and silent and beautiful. Our street is already covered in the white stuff, and I know that tomorrow it will be madness to go to work, with treacherous roads and hazardous traffic.

But right now… right now, I just let the steady, otherworldly rhythm of the snowflakes hypnotise me. It's strangely soothing and distracts me from the thoughts that haunt me, the dark and twisted thoughts that kept me awake in the first place.

I'm so engrossed that I don't hear him come in. His arms around my waist shock me, his mouth on my neck gives me shivers—of irritation first, closely followed by a jolt of desire.

"Come to bed, baby."

He half moans, half whispers in my hair, and I feel his erection pressing into my lower back. His hands travel down from my shoulders in one smooth, even movement, pressing just a bit harder on my breasts, then down towards my waist; they dive under my pyjama top, and travel back up again on my bare skin until they reach my breasts again. Normally he would be teasing me, circling around them, knowing how much I love to be touched there, and delaying my gratification just enough to make me beg and press into his hands. But not this time—this time he just goes straight for my nipples, and pinches them hard, roughly. The feeling is intense and delicious and shoots straight to my groin, making it tighten and pulsate and causing me to instinctively arch back against him.

"Edward…" I open my mouth to tell him to stop, but end up groaning his name instead. I try to hang on to my thoughts. "It's late… work in the morning… can't…"

All I get in reply is a further pinch of my nipples, and a bite on my neck—hard enough to make me quiver, not hard enough to leave a mark. I can feel the heat pulsating between my legs, and he's pushing, grinding against me; my hand travels back to his head of its own accord, gripping his hair, forcing him down, forcing him to keep his lips on my neck; he opens his mouth and licks the spot he just bit, and at the same time he plunges one hand into my pants. He doesn't bother to pause and tease me: his fingers – one, two? Oh, God… – are in me, and my knees give way so that only the window in front of me and his arms around me keep me from falling down.

"You were saying, baby?" He's sliding his fingers in and out of me and turning my body to molten wax, to a liquid, incoherent mess.

I whimper and close my eyes, letting the sensations wash over me.

"Come to bed, baby,"

he repeats, his voice husky and musical, while withdrawing his fingers and turning me around. I look at him then, and he's all messy hair and dark, hooded eyes and unshaven roughness. He smells of sleep, and he's warm and inviting and hard and wanting.

His fingers—the fingers that just a minute ago were inside me, igniting and confusing me—trail through mine and he pulls me to our bedroom, then pushes me gently on our bed. He shuffles down his pyjama pants while I do the same. He's beside me in a second, and inside me in what feels like no time at all. I moan, welcoming him, gripping him, opening up so he can go further, deeper, harder. I'm on my back, and he gets on his knees, pulling me up so my legs are around his waist and my body is at an awkward, unstable angle. He knows I love it like this, because I let him take control—something I rarely allow myself outside the bedroom.

Our coming together is strange and unusual like the snow falling outside, like the yellow not-quite-night, like the suspended place between sleep and consciousness of the early morning hours. None of the endearments, soft kisses, and long, agonising thrusts of lovemaking; but none of the grunting, dirty words, and hunger of fucking, either.

It's silent and intense, and I lose myself almost instantly, all rational thought leaving me as I give in to wave after wave of lust, of desire, of sensation. Edward pushes deeper into me, and shuts his eyes, and I clench around him as I grip the bed sheets in my hands. I know his body so well, know that he's close and holding back, waiting for me, and I rotate my hips slightly, changing his angle unexpectedly. The new sensation is enough to push us both over the edge and he comes with a strangled groan, falling into my arms.

He's heavy on me, and I run my hands gently down his back, over his shoulders, through his hair. He'll fall asleep like this, all sticky and spent, if I let him. He loves the cuddles and the sweet words and light touches and the feel of my hands through his hair, gently scratching his scalp. And normally I would force him to get up, clean up, get dressed... But tonight… tonight I can't. I don't have the heart to deny him, to deny myself.

Because later today, when the magic of this snowy night will be gone, and the harsh grey light of the day will make things clear and stark once more, and noise and expectations will inevitably invade our world… today, I will tell him.

It's over.


	2. 15th December (Tuesday)

**Day 2, prompt 4**

_Edward_

The room is dark. At this time of year it seems to be dark all the time – wake in the dark, go to work in the dark, come home in the dark. Daylight becomes a precious commodity, enjoyed in five-minute snatches as I glance up from my work.

Rose is still sleeping, her face hidden behind a tangle of blonde hair. I push it back and she scowls in her sleep, turning her face into the pillow. I smile and slide out of bed, careful not to push the covers back too far, trying to disturb her as little as possible. The air is cold, but I love the contrast to the too-hot bed, where I've been smothered by Rose's piles of blankets all night. I wander downstairs, jumping over the bottom step, which always creaks loud enough to wake the dead.

The kitchen floor is freezing under my feet, but I don't care. I am happy this morning, thinking of my beautiful Rose sleeping upstairs, thinking of her warm willingness last night. I can't help smiling as I make breakfast for us both. She's always so strong, so forthright, always challenging me in everything I do, so it was a huge surprise when she capitulated so easily to my hopefulness in the middle of the night. I hadn't truly expected her to, which was only more of a turn-on. I love this woman so much. So much more than any other woman, ever.

Who would have thought we would come so far, so fast? We met only a few months ago, when we were both at yet another fundraising function – she to donate, on behalf of her employer, and me to try to win over the big cheeses holding the cash.

You'd think research into heart disease wouldn't need to stoop so low, but apparently people can't be relied upon to cough up just from a sense of duty or consideration for the good of the species. . Everyone in the lab had been coerced into attending this dull dinner and be (as our crazy lab manager, Victoria, said) "fascinating and beautiful". As the only single man under the age of thirty-five in the department, all the women had decided that I should be prised away from the laboratory, dressed up and paraded out to woo the female purse-string-holders. They'd made me turn up early, and had rearranged the knot of my tie and irritated me until my face had settled into the not-quite frown they all said was "hot". I didn't get it, and I certainly didn't understand why me being pissed off before the benefactors even got here would be a good idea. It turned out that they were right, though. Not in the way they hoped, perhaps, but it had worked for me.

Rose had been one of the last to arrive, and by then the not-quite frown had deepened into an almost-scowl. I was never any good at small talk, and had retreated into a deserted corner of the room with a drink, hoping for a few minutes of peace and quiet. She had pushed through the door right beside me, looked me up and down, and walked away without saying a word, her hips swaying under a long red dress, teetering on sky-high heels. I'd watched her go, partly thankful that my peace was still unbroken, and partly annoyed that she'd not even greeted me.

I was still trying to decide whether I was more grateful or more irritated when she returned, holding a glass of wine. She took my Coke from my hand, and pushed the wine at me.

"You looked like you needed something stronger," she said.

I fell for her there and then. I don't even remember the rest of that evening, though the night remains clear in my mind. I remember leaving in a taxi, in a hurry, with her holding my hand as we climbed out of the car and up the stairs to my front door. I remember how I'd pulled her to me, and how those shoes had lain abandoned in my hallway. I remember kissing her again and again and again, and I remember how it felt to be inside her, not just that time, but every time since then. Every time, it is wonderful. Every time it is different, and every time it is perfect. Every time I cannot wait until the next time.

I can't help myself. I'm in love. I smile to myself, wanting to run up the stairs and ask her the question I've been pondering on for weeks. I want to wait until Christmas Day, but the closer it gets the harder it is to stop myself just blurting it out.

As I've been daydreaming, the sun has crept back into the world, and I realise that the snow that was falling last night is still falling, and doesn't appear to have stopped. Well. We can be snowed in, maybe. Making our own entertainment could be fun... The sunlight on the snow brightens the kitchen, and it only improves my mood. I carry the breakfast upstairs to Rose, and find myself singing as I climb the stairs and walk into the room. She is awake by now, sitting up in bed and looking unsettled by my cheerfulness..

"Tidings of comfort and joy, my darling." I grin widely at her, and hand her a plate. "You can join in, if you like. Shame it's not the Feast of Stephen yet, or it would be like living in a carol."

She looks at me blankly, and raises an eyebrow. It's clear to me she has no idea what I'm talking about, or maybe she's just pretending not to understand me. Who knows. She can be quite grumpy first thing in the morning. Just one more thing I love about her.

"When the snow lay round about? Deep and crisp and even?"

She is unimpressed, and I end up singing several carols on my own as we get up and get dressed. Even though Rose is clearly intending to go to work rather than stay in bed all day, using the snow as an excuse, it's not enough to dampen my mood. There's an odd expression on her face as I sing through one verse. "The hopes and fears of all the years" - she can't know my plans, can she? All my hopes, and, if I'm honest, all my fears, are pinned on her, on her answer to the one question that I'm saving for another ten days. For a moment I'm assailed by doubt, as the fears outweigh the hopes. But no. She is my everything. I love her beyond anything I've ever imagined, and I'm sure she'll say yes. I can't wait.

I hold her in a fierce hug before we leave for work, and kiss her, smiling. One morning down, nine more to go.


	3. 16th December (Wednesday)

**Day 3, Prompt 6**

_Rosalie_

"Seriously, Leah? What the fuck?"

I survey my surroundings: the garish decorations, the balloons pinned on every column, the cartoon printouts garlanding Meeting Room 1. It looks as though a clown on an LSD trip camped in the office overnight and forgot to clean up after himself. It's disorienting, to say the least.

"Children's Christmas party," is her slurry, full-mouthed reply. She's got this disgusting habit of having her breakfast cereal at her desk—which happens to be mere inches from mine—and carrying on conversations regardless. It pisses me off every day and today is no exception.

Shit. I'd forgotten everything about this stupid bring-your-child to work shindig. Had I remembered, I would have worked from home, because there's no way I'll be able to concentrate now, with brats running around and proud parents parading them like prized cattle.

I don't mind the children, actually. It's the parents: their loaded stares, their scrutinising eyes when they regard my interactions with their offspring. All the questions they're dying to ask, their barely disguised curiosity… I hate that.

Because it's obvious that at the age of thirty-three I should be desperate for children, right? Obvious that I envy them, and feel uncomfortable around them, and resent their superior, hallowed status, achieved thanks to the mere fact of having procreated.

Poor, childless Rosalie Hale.

Well, fuck that. Fuck their smug assumptions, and their unearned pity. Fuck the tight little pigeonhole they love to place me in.

Fuck that.

And fuck Emmett, too, while we're at it. Of all the horrible, heartless things he said to me after our

break-up, his accusation that I'll never have children because I'm too much of a heartless bitch is the one that hurt the most. He took my most secret, darkest insecurity—extracted, in a moment of weakness, with a heavy hand and a murky intent—and threw it back at me, coated in poison and deceit. It landed like a cluster bomb into my heart; the debris is still buried deep, threatening to detonate again and destroy me.

I've never talked about it with Edward, the whole children thing. I know that for most women my age it's a priority, that they put it on the table as early as they can: "Promise me your sperm, or make room for someone who will."

I'd rather keep it off the table for as long as I possibly can… forever, maybe.

But in a way… I wish we'd had this conversation; it might make it easier to do what I have to do. If we'd talked about it, he would have seen how fundamentally incompatible we are, how risible is the notion of us having a future together.

Edward is the kind of man who can't wait to settle down and put a bun, or two or three, in the oven.

I just know it. He'll want to recreate the suburban idyll of his childhood: semi-detached house in a quiet cul-de-sac, nice family car, a swing set in the garden and a smiley, happy woman who bakes cakes and doesn't demand much more than a celebratory piece of jewellery on mandated occasions to reiterate her ownership status to the world.

And… in truth? He'll be a wonderful husband, and a wonderful father, and he deserves to be with someone who's ready for all that. Someone who actually knows what a family is. Someone who's not scared shitless of the very idea of a family. At the very least, someone who's able to pick up the phone to her own mother once in a while, like, say, around Christmas.

He'll be perfect. For the perfect woman.

Not me, then.

So it will be for the best, really. It's the right thing to do. He'll be better off without me, and I… well, I'll be fine. We're not meant for each other; our paths should never have crossed; our worlds have merely collided.

I should have told him already, I shouldn't have lost my nerve. But he caught me off guard yesterday morning, singing carols and bringing me breakfast in bed, his festive, joyous mood almost contagious, and the hugging and lingering kisses reawakening memories of the eerie, intense connection of the night before. And then last night we both got home late, tired, frazzled from the unusually chaotic and long commute—an unpleasant legacy of the snowy night—and he seemed distracted, on edge.

I figured it was probably something at work, weighing heavily on his mind, and I didn't want to pry. He takes things to heart; he cares about what he does. It's one of the things that attracted me to him in the first place—that he does something he believes in, and he believes in what he does.

That what he does matters, and he puts passion and commitment into his work. He has morals, and believes in ethics, and I think he's the only man I know who holds these old-fashioned values.

It would be so easy to fall in love with Edward Cullen, and never fall out of it again.

But I should tell him. I should leave him. The sooner, the better, for both of us.

"Rosalie?" Maria's sweeter-than-usual voice snaps me out of my anguished stream of consciousness. "I wanted you to meet Gracie. She's helping me out at work today."

I look up, and smile at little Gracie's lovely, eager big blue eyes and concentrated expression. I hold out my hand to her.

"Well, hello, Gracie - want to help me with some papers I need to print out?"

She looks up at her mother, who nods encouragingly, then takes my hand and we walk, slowly toward the printer. Her fingers are small and soft and warm in mine, and I want to hold them tighter, and never let them go.


	4. 17th December (Thursday)

**Day 4, Prompt 8**

_Edward_

"Oh, that's nice."

I sigh happily as I sink into soft cushions and take a long draught of my beer. It's been a really long week, and everyone in the lab has retired to the local pub for our usual Thursday night drinks. I am dead tired, my muscles aching from spending all day tied to my workbench in the lab, and my head pounding from patching up quarrels over nothing between almost everyone.

I'm not sure what's going on at home, either – Rose came home yesterday almost in tears, but refused to talk to me about what was wrong. I'm hoping it's just that she's having a tough week at work too – if she won't talk to me about it, it can't be anything about me, right? Just so long as she hasn't found the ring. It's hidden away, right at the back of my underwear drawer, and what woman in her right mind would be digging around in her boyfriend's underpants? Hah. Underpants that said boyfriend isn't wearing, obviously. I chuckle to myself, and try to stop myself imagining Rose's cool hands sliding down into my boxer shorts. I don't think about how her fingers would stroke and slide and squeeze...

I'm shaken rudely from my thoughts by a braying laugh in my ear. Jess and Lauren throw themselves down on to the sofa, one either side so I can't get away. At least now the semi is fading away – nothing like a rude awakening to take care of business. Lauren has stretched her arm across behind me, and is leaning in a little too close for comfort. I start to edge away, get a little more space, but Jess is on that side, already somewhat the worse for wear, with a wine glass in one hand and something else clutched in the other.

I look up, confused, trying to see what she's dangling over my head.

"Mistletoe!" Lauren squeals, before kissing my cheek. Presumably even she has more sense than to aim for the lips and risk an embarrassing scene. "So, Edward... Have you been naughty, or nice?" She leers at me and continues in hushed tones: "I can be both, whichever you like."

The semi has definitely gone now, and taken my relaxed mood along with it. "I don't doubt that." I force a smile as I extricate myself from her clutches. "I've got to go soon, I told my girlfriend I wouldn't be out too late."

Lauren's face creases into a disappointed frown. "Girlfriend? I thought you and Bella split up?"

"You're a bit behind the times." She still looks confused. "I broke up with Bella, yes. But I've been going out with Rose for about eight, nine months now."

Jess is smiling. "I'd give up if I were you, Lauren. Look at his face – just mentioning her name makes him grin like an idiot; he's clearly smitten with this girl."

She's right, I am. I feel myself starting to blush, and look away, abashed. She doesn't stop, though.

"Come on, sit back down. Tell us all about her. Why did you and Bella break up in the first place?"

Why didn't Bella and I break up would be a better question. I grimace, thinking back on what a lopsided nightmare of a relationship that turned out to be. It was like being involved with a shadow; she always just did whatever I wanted to do. Granted, it made for an easy life, and it certainly ensured she got on with my mother, but it wasn't very... challenging. There's no satisfaction in pushing and meeting no resistance. I always felt like I was taking and never able to give. Even when I tried to do things for her, she would turn it round so we were doing my favourite things. How do you explain that you left someone because they always gave you everything you wanted? It's impossible to say that without sounding like a complete asshole.

"It just wasn't working out, you know?" It seems safer not to elaborate.

Jess raises an eyebrow. "Okay, fine. What about this new girl, then?"

I can feel a grin stealing on to my face. I can't help myself, I try to suppress it, but I'm beaming just thinking about her.

"Her name is Rose. Rosalie. I met her at that fundraiser earlier this year; you remember the one? We, er, hit it off straight away." My grin widens slightly, remembering that night, and the following morning. And the following night. "She's a lawyer, so we struggled to see each other much – so much work on, blah blah blah. We've solved that problem, though. She moved in with me about two months ago, and everything's brilliant."

"I'm glad to see you happy, Edward. Really, it's fantastic." Jess hugs me, then gives me a playful shove. "Fuck off home to your perfect girlfriend, then. Merry Christmas!"

I hug her, and Lauren, and give them both a kiss on the cheek. Despite the conversation about Rose, Lauren still giggles and gives me the look that she thinks is seductive. I roll my eyes at both of them and say my goodbyes to everyone else.

When I get home, Rose is already asleep. She has a paperback in her hand and her bedside light still on, so she must have been pretty tired to have fallen asleep like that, though she stirs awake as I creep about the bedroom and undress. She grumbles as I slide into bed and bury my face in her hair.

"Shh, it's just me," I whisper. "Go to sleep."

She rolls over and pulls me closer to her, pressing her hands into my back and her hips against mine. Her face is pressed into my chest as we both drift into sleep. My God, I love this woman.


	5. 18th December (Friday)

**Day 5, Prompt 9**

_Rosalie_

I wake up to the uncomfortable sensation of not being able to breathe. It takes me a moment to realise why: a combination of being smothered by Edward's chest—he's holding me against him so tight I feel like I'm about to suffocate—and an uncomfortable, raspy feeling in the back of my throat.

I disentangle myself from Edward, and try to take a deep breath. Not happening. My nose is blocked and my throat is swollen and raw. Shit, shit, shit. I get out of bed and curse my weak, unsteady legs. I reach the kitchen and down a glass of tap water, hoping to make the dryness and the discomfort go away. Wincing, I register the pain it causes me to swallow.

I'm sick. I lean against the kitchen counter and close my eyes, contemplating what this means. I'm never sick, and I hate it.

Just then, Edward walks in, still in his pyjamas, rubbing his eyes with one hand while he scratches his belly with the other.

"Morning…" He leans in to kiss me, and I instinctively turn my face away from him, so he hits an awkward spot between my cheekbone and my hair.

"What's wrong?" He takes my face in his hands, turning it to his. "You feel really warm, are you okay?"

I shake my head. Just the thought of speaking makes my throat hurt. A fevery chill runs down my spine and I shiver visibly.

"What's wrong?" he asks again, his voice soft and laced with concern. His hand caresses my hair and tucks it in behind one ear.

"It's just a cold." The unpleasant feeling in my throat, as if I'm swallowing glass shards, almost makes me cry, and my voice sounds croaky and horrid. "I'll just take some ibuprofen and I'll be fine."

"No you won't, silly. You need to go back to bed and stay there." He takes my hand and pulls

me gently in the direction of the corridor, toward our bedroom.

I shake my hand and try to protest.

"I've got too much work."

He looks at me with a sceptical expression, one eyebrow slightly raised.

"You can work from home today, okay?" He knows me too well to argue against me working at all, so he settles for the next best thing.

And so that's what I do. I go back to bed with a hot cup of tea and my laptop, and I surprise myself with just how much I manage to get done, in spite of my sore throat and aching head.

At around ten my Skype icon flashes. Jasper is trying to call me. I refuse the call, and type a quick chat message instead.

"Can't speak - throat hurts too much. How are you? WTF are you doing up at this time?"

Jasper lives in New York, and I quickly calculate it must be about five am there.

He replies back quickly.

"LOL. I just got up. Got the breakfast shift this morning."

He's a chef in a busy downtown restaurant that also caters to the business breakfast crowd.

"Ouch."

"IKR? How are you, little sister?"

"You're only six minutes older than me, so quit the big brother act. And, as I mentioned, I'm feeling likeshit."

"Still talking sore throat, or is there anything else?"

I have no idea how he does it. They do say twins have some kind of emotional telepathy, but I sometimes think it's just Jasper who has this incredible ability to sense my moods despite being thousands of miles and several time zones apart and not having seen each other in about two years.

"Fuck you, J. Not going there."

He types back fast.

"You are SO going there. What's going on? Is this new guy being an asshole to you?"

I ponder his question for a minute.

"No, nothing like that… it's just… J, he's like, Mr Perfect."

"And that is a problem because…?"

"That is a problem because, Jasper, I'm Little Miss Fucked-up, as you well know."

His response is an annoying, passive aggressive string of ellipses with a question mark at the end. I type on, angrily.

"He's going to find out, sooner or later, that I can't be what he wants me to be, his little Stepford

Wife fantasy. I mean, sure, he says he loves me and all, but I don't know. We fight a lot…

Everything is a struggle for control with us. It's exhausting to always wait for the moment when it

all finally goes to shit."

I don't get a reply from him for several minutes and I think he's gone. Then the icon flashes again.

"And you? You love him?"

A sense of panic fills my chest.

"Shit Jasper, I don't even know what love is. I mean, the sex is amazing (not that you want to know

this, probably), and he's smart and funny, and really good looking..."

"Does he make you feel safe?"

Safe? Does Edward make me feel safe?

"I guess so…"

"Does he make you want to be a better person?"

"Oh fuck you, Jasper, you've been watching too much Oprah."

"Answer my question, Rosalie Hale: does he, or does he not, make you want to be a better person?"

I ponder the question for a minute.

Edward always laughs at what he calls my "lawyer bitch impersonation.". It amuses him greatly

when he hears me on the phone with work, choosing my words carefully, delivering steely verdicts

and mentioning astronomical sums of money with barely a flinch. But he knows how much effort it costs me to be that person.

I am reminded of the time when we went to a cocktail party with my colleagues, and he held my hand the entire evening, squeezing just a bit harder whenever he felt me tense up in response to one of the sexist comments my bosses are so used to delivering in my presence. With him at my side, I was grounded, I could let all of that wash over me; I could remember that this was all a charade, and that who I am has nothing to do with how they see me, or how they want me to be.

Edward respects my professional persona, but allows my real self to come to surface, and he cherishes that, too. He makes me want to be myself.

"I guess so"

"Listen, baby sister. I gotta go now. But I want you to think hard before you do your usual self-destructive act on this guy. If his only problem is that he's too good to be true, well, then I think you can work with that. Think about what you want, not what you think he wants."

"When did you become so wise, J?"

"I was always wise, R. I just didn't know it. Laters, baby."

I smile at his smooth, American colloquialism.

"Laters, big boy."

**{o}{o}{o}**

I must have fallen asleep after that, because the doorbell wakes me up. Disoriented, I look at my

watch and realize it's midday already. I open the door just enough to see who's there.

"Delivery for Miss Hale?" a guy in uniform asks, holding up a small box.

"Yes, that's me."

I bring the box into the kitchen, and open it. Inside is another, beautifully wrapped box with an elaborate bow. I smile despite myself, knowing this can only come from one person. I pull the bow and tear the tissue paper, then open the cardboard box impatiently.

Inside are six beautiful, giant cookies, studded with gorgeous chocolate chips, nuts and dried fruit.

They still feel warm and the smell is so mouth-wateringly delicious it reaches my senses even through my stuffy nose. I recognise them immediately- they're from that wonderful patisserie in Notting Hill I love so much.

My heart beats faster as I pick up the card that's nestled inside.

_Sweets for my sweet_

_Sugar for my honey_

_Your first sweet kiss thrilled me so_

_I'll never ever let you go_

_Rest up and get better my darling._

_Edward_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from CJ Lewis: Sweets For My Sweet. Edward is such a sucker for romance, isn't he? :)


	6. 19th December (Saturday)

**Day 6, Prompt 12**

_Edward_

"Hey baby." I'm whispering, trying to talk to her without disturbing her too much. She looked like death warmed up yesterday evening, and could really do without me waking her now, but I've got to get some shopping done. Turning up at my parents' house without a Christmas present for my mother would be unforgivable.

Rose mumbles incoherently at me. I presume she's awake and listening, but feels too awful to talk.

"I'm going into town. Got to get some last-minute bits and pieces. Is there anything you want?"

She doesn't even open her eyes, just squeezes my hand tight and shakes her head. As I try to retrieve my hand, she pulls it into her chest, rolling over so I'm trapped. Her skin is so hot, I feel like I must be made of ice by comparison.

"Sweetie, let me go. I'll be back later. You go back to sleep, eh?" Her grip loosens and I slowly pull my hand away. I kiss her hair and pull the blanket back up over her shoulders. She's asleep again before I've left the bedroom, and I creep downstairs and out of the house.

I wander around town for a few hours, trying in vain to find the perfect present for my mother. Eventually I settle for a couple of paperbacks and a silk scarf. It's not very inspiring, but it'll have to do. As I head out of town, there's Christmas music blaring from almost every shop, and the ubiquity of Mariah Carey forces an idea into my head. All I want for Christmas is you? I grin to myself, and turn back towards the shops for one last item.

**{o}{o}{o}**

When I get home, Rose is curled up on the sofa, still in her pyjamas. The covers from our bed are wrapped around her, and she looks tiny amongst all that padding.

"Hello, you. I'm back. I've got you something, too." Although she doesn't say anything, she's intrigued, I can tell. I wink at her and head for the stairs. "Stay there, I've got to get it ready."

I dump the shopping bags on our bed and fish out the piece of red ribbon, stripping off my shirt and tying the ribbon in a bow around me. I try not to laugh out loud—I know I look faintly ridiculous—but I can't hold back my grin as I saunter back down to Rose.

She looks completely confused as I strike a pose in the doorway.

"It's me!"

"What?"

"Me, your present. Like, 'all I want for Christmas is you'? Mariah Carey, _et cetera_?"

"You are joking?" Her face has gone into that scary expression that I'm sure terrifies juries into giving her the verdict she wants, regardless of the evidence presented.

"Eh… no… I mean yes… I thought it would be funny?"

"Funny? I've spent the last couple of days feeling like shit, on my own, and then you fuck off all day and think dressing up in a ribbon like you're God's gift to women is going to make me laugh? Since when have I ever said all I ever wanted was you? If that was the case why the fuck do I have no social life and spend all my spare time working?"

"What the fuck, Rose? It's just a joke! I don't think your life revolves around me. Of course it doesn't! And shouldn't, obviously."

"No, well. You're in the minority there then, aren't you." Her mouth is twisted into a sneer. "You had a phone call earlier."

"What?" The sudden change in direction has thrown me.

"A telephone call, Edward, where you talk into a machine and someone miles away can talk back. Your mother wanted to talk to you. She was most put out that she got me instead."

"Right, okay. Thanks, I'll call her." I shake my head and tug the ribbon off me, wanting to forget all about my ill-advised joke. I grab the phone and head back upstairs, dialling my parents' number as I go.

My mother answers the phone after only a couple of rings, and immediately launches into a monologue about work and Christmas plans, and what she's bought my father. I let her ramble on as usual, the familiar patterns of her enthusiasm and outrage soothing my ruffled feathers. She talks about how she's looking forward to seeing me in a few days' time.

"And Rose too, mum. You remember it's both of us coming."

"Oh, yes, of course, dear. Rosalie will be welcome. I'll make up the spare room for her."

"Spare room? Have you finally got round to redoing my old room?"

There's an awkward pause.

"No, darling, I meant the spare room. You've got your room, as always. Guests have the spare room."

"She's not a guest, mum, she's my girlfriend. And we're adults, and she and I live together. Why can't she sleep in my room, with me?"

"We aren't short of space, sweetheart, what with Alice being away. No need to be all crammed in together. Plus, she'll have her own bathroom. Now, about Alice..."

She starts off singing the praises of my baby sister, who's pretending to be saving the earth on yet another gap year but is in fact creating a carbon footprint that must be rivalling that of a Hollywood superstar. I take the easy option and decide not to push it about the bedrooms. I can always sneak Rose into my room and we can pretend to be naughty teenagers.

Eventually she runs out of steam, and rings off. I head back downstairs to find Rose in floods of tears over some girly movie. I don't know what she sees in these fluffy, romantic stories. I grin at her and retreat to the other side of the sofa with a book, leaving her to the sappy nonsense. Still, if she's this easily swayed by romance, it should be easy to have her swooning when I propose. Only another week to go.


	7. 20th December (Sunday)

**Day 7, Prompt 14**

_Rosalie_

Seven a.m. The alarm clock taunts me and I curse myself for being awake already. I suppose I have been sleeping a lot over the last couple of days, so it makes sense. But being awake means being able to think, and I do not want to think. I just want to be unconscious and unfeeling and I want someone else to tell me what to do and what to say and what to wear and how to act.

But no. I am awake. And thoughts and feelings are flooding me and I can't shut them out.

Sometimes I wonder if Edward even knows me. Sometimes I wonder if I even know him. He's in bed next to me, breathing evenly and peacefully and snoring a little bit; he looks so young, so serene, so handsome. Warmth radiates from him.

And yet I feel completely alone and impossibly cold.

After chatting to Jasper on Friday I was almost ready to give him another chance, to see if maybe we're more compatible than I originally thought.

Now, in the cold, harsh morning light, I'm not so sure any more.

As I fell into a feverish sleep last night I thought back to all the times I'd seen his dark places and repressed emotions surface—all the times he'd let his guard down, and allowed me a glimpse of his fears and frustrations. All the times I felt that maybe we were more similar than I realised, all the times I thought I could be a match for him.

But I can count these incidents on the fingers of one hand: if there's anything Edward has perfected, it's the stiff upper lip, make-the-best-of-it, don't ask-don't tell attitude typical of the stereotypical English man.

The inner turmoil mostly comes out when he plays the piano. How clichéd, I know. In the beginning I was fascinated by his musical ability, and I assumed it was just another party trick, another accomplishment that he had acquired and perfected over the years, another ticked box in his "Mr Perfect" pedigree.

Then I heard him play; _really_ play. We'd been together maybe three months by then, and I woke up on a Sunday morning to the familiar sounds of a well known classical piece: I knew it because it was the sort of soothing, bland tune that can be played safely at company functions, no connotations of extreme passion, no sentiment behind it. Nice, lulling, and forgettable in its ubiquity.

But then the music changed, morphed into something more raw, rougher, faster. The familiar melody was still there, but there was increasing anger and anguish in the notes, and dissonances had begun to appear in the ever faster rhythm. I walked softly to the living room, and watched him play. His hair was wild, his eyes closed; his hands flew over the piano in a frenzy. His features were so contorted I wondered what he was thinking, what he was feeling. It scared me and fascinated me in equal measures.

He stopped, and saw me: his eyes were black, faraway, and for the longest time we just stared at each other without saying a word. Then, finally, his lips turned into a familiar smile; his eyes squinted and softened; and he opened his arms to welcome me. He was back; he was gone.

But then yesterday? His little trick with the red ribbon? I guess he thought it was funny; sexy even. I suppose it was, in a way, and I probably overreacted, but I couldn't believe how badly he misjudged me, couldn't believe he could possibly think I would laugh at something so silly and childish.

I suppose he thought twenty-four hours of sickness and anguish were enough, and I needed to snap out of it.

_"Come on Rose now, be a good girl. Chin up. It's almost Christmas, jolly times and all."_ I could almost hear his unsaid words.

It doesn't surprise me, really. I mean, you just have to take one look at his parents to understand why he's like this: Esme and Carlisle Cullen do not do anguish; they do not do silences; they do not do introspection. They would probably be horrified to know that all those piano lessons allowed their precious son to vent such distasteful, disagreeable feelings.

I shudder, thinking of Esme, and just how unpleasant she was on the phone yesterday. Edward doesn't like to talk about his parents, but I just know they are still hoping he'll get back together with his ex-girlfriend, Bella. As far as I can tell she was perfect girlfriend material: good family, demure, a respectable and perfectly harmless degree in Art History, and a bland, non-threatening prettiness that would ensure their grandchildren would be beautiful, but retain the Cullen looks.

Esme does not actually have to say anything for me to know she disapproves of me.

I regret agreeing to go with him for Christmas: I mean, I tried to refuse, but it was hard, seeing as I had nowhere else to go, no-one to spend it with. I tried to convince him I'd be perfectly happy on my own, sharing a glass of champagne with my brother over a Skype video call, as we always do. But he was having none of it. He insisted so much that I finally relented.

And now I wish I hadn't. I also wish I'd managed to break things off with him already, because now… it's too late. I can't be this callous, so close to Christmas. It would be really mean, it would spoil his holidays, it would embarrass him and humiliate him in front of his parents; he would hate me forever. And much as I want him to let me go, much as I want him to be free of me, I am not sure I could deal with knowing he hates me… lots of people hate me, and I'm fine with that… but not him, not his pure, beautiful, honest heart.

It will have to wait, and I will have to endure the horror of a Cullen Christmas. I suppose that's okay; that will be my penance.

I steal one look at Edward, still sleeping peacefully next to me, and drag myself to the shower. I feel better, and have got a million things to do. I guess if I'm going to be spending one last Christmas with Edward, I better get him a present, at least.

**{o}{o}{o}**

As I turn off the shower, I hear him in the kitchen, merrily whistling a Christmas Carol. He turns around and smiles when he sees me.

"Jesus, Edward, how can you always be so cheerful in the morning?" I mumble, grumpily, as I reach for my cup of coffee.

"Why wouldn't I be cheerful? It's almost Christmas, and I've got a beautiful girl to spend it with."

He leans over and kisses me in that spot between my neck and my ear that always makes me whimper. I really wish it didn't feel so good.

"So, what did your mother want yesterday?" I don't look at him as I say the words.

"Mmmhh nothing, you know, just making sure we're all set to go home on Tuesday." He's looking at the paper, but he puts it down to look at me. "There was some nonsense about sleeping arrangements, though. Apparently you're getting the spare room." He has at least got the decency to look slightly sheepish when he says this.

"You're kidding me, right? And you're fine with that? Jesus, Edward, you're thirty-two for crying out loud!" I can feel the anger rising up in me "And do they not _know_ we live together? Have you not _told_ them?"

"Calm down, Rosie, it's no big deal! You know, we can still be together, we'll just have to sneak out in the night or something, and if it means so much to my mother I didn't want to make a scene…"

"You didn't want to make a _scene_? Are you fucking kidding me with this, Edward? Does it not matter that it means something to _me_?"

"Come on, it's not like this, Rosie… please, don't get mad." He gets up to come and stand next to me, but I flinch and move away.

"Too late, Edward, I'm already mad. I should have never agreed to come. It was a mistake. You know what, this is all a mistake."

I stomp out of the kitchen furiously, grab my coat and my bag, and head out the door without a second glance.


	8. 21st December (Monday)

**Day 8, Prompt 15**

_Edward_

It's three o'clock in the morning, and she's still not back. I've walked round the neighbourhood for the last two hours, hoping each time I come back to the house that she'll be here.

But she's still not here. I'm not worried about her, I'm sure she's safe, but it's not like her to run away like this. She always faces up to her problems, always charges in head-first. I haven't tried calling her friends: if she's not with them I don't think I could stand the resultant hue and cry. I don't know what's wrong, I don't know what I've done, and I don't know how to fix it.

So I'm still pacing around and around, unable to settle, unable to consider going to sleep. I've got work in the morning, and I should really be in the lab, but I can get away with trying to concentrate on paperwork, working from home and oversleeping if I need to. And then I can stay here and hope she comes home. And wait. And hope. And wait.

Eventually the tiredness catches up with me, and I trudge upstairs and fall into bed, still dressed. I just about manage to kick off my shoes, and drift into a restless sleep, waking at every tiny noise.

Several hours of poor quality sleep later, she's still not back.

Several hours of poor quality work later, she's still not back.

I call it a day at half past four, close my laptop and stare sightlessly out of the window.

More pacing, and the piano calls to me. I sit down and gaze at the keys for a while, my fingers gently stroking the smooth, familiar surfaces. Finally I close my eyes, and the music carries me away.

Rose brings me back again. All that waiting, all that wishing, all that pacing, and when she comes back I am so lost I don't even see her. She's staring at me, standing beside the piano. I'm looking at her, desperate for some sign of what I should do. She has shiny trails leading down from her eyes, and as I watch another tear rolls down her face. What do I do? I don't know why she left, why she's back, or what I should do now.

I daren't get up and approach her. I stay very still on the piano stool, open my arms, and hope.

She hesitates for what feels like hours, then she closes the space between us in a sudden rush forwards and falls into my arms. I hold her so tightly I start to worry that I'm going to cut off her breathing, but I can't let go. The fabric of her dress is unfamiliar under my hands, and I wonder where she was staying last night. I'm sure it's not hers – I would surely have noticed something that made her legs look like this. It looks good on her, good enough that my cock twitches hopefully despite the circumstances.

"I thought you might never come back." My voice is tiny; I can hardly hear it myself. There's a catch in my throat and I realise, somewhat embarrassed, that Rose is not the only one who has been crying.

"I nearly didn't." She's shaking ever so slightly as she speaks. "I shouldn't have done. We're so wrong for each other, Edward, so wrong. And, God help me, I think I might be falling for you, and that is just so wrong."

Her words burn into my brain, and they're all I can hear. She's still talking, something about _best for both of us_ , and _better in the long run_ , and _could never be good enough for your family_ , but all I can hear is _falling for you_ , over and over again.

"Falling for me?"

"What? Edward, you're missing the point, as usual. I came back because I live here. I'll cope with Christmas with your family, but we need to talk. Soon."

"You didn't come back because of me? Rose?"

My voice trails into a whisper. "Please, Rose."

She pretends she hasn't heard, and disentangles herself from my arms. "I'm going to pack. You want me to pack up some clothes for you too?"

"No. No packing. How about we talk about this, now? There's something wrong here, Rosie."

She says nothing, but doesn't move, still halfway out of the door with her back to me.

"Rose? Why did you go? What have I done?"

"Nothing." Her voice is bitter. "Nothing at all. And I've done nothing, either… yet, anyway. But no matter what goes on between us, I can't keep playing second fiddle to your mother. I can't do it, and I won't."

I'm speechless. I have no idea what she just said, or why. What does my mother have to do with this? I can't shake the feeling we're talking about something else completely, and I'm too slow to figure out what, exactly, is the real issue.

Before I can gather my thoughts enough to respond, Rose continues.

"The silence speaks volumes, Edward. Nice to hear you jumping to my defence, there. I'm going to pack."

Again, she's gone. She's in the house, packing away, but it feels like she's even further away than before. I turn back to the piano, resting my elbows on the keys and my head in my hands. What have I done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's playing Moonlight Sonata (Beethoven, sonata no. 14, first movement), of course. One of the saddest pieces of music ever written, and so beautiful too. Vladimir Horowitz played it perfectly: www.youtube.com/watch?v=MzXkPQJOexU


	9. 22nd December (Tuesday)

**Day 9, prompt 17**

_Rosalie_

To say that the last forty-eight hours have been shit would be the understatement of the century.

After our fight on Sunday morning I wandered aimlessly through Hampstead Heath for what felt like hours. It was just me and a bunch of kamikaze joggers in the cold misty morning, plus a few dog owners out on brisk walks with their pets. I had thought walking around would bring me some clarity, but I was sorely mistaken, and I just ended up sinking deeper and deeper into a wallowing pool of self-pity.

I did eventually manage to pull myself together and do some Christmas shopping. I bought Edward some new sheet music and a pair of cufflinks, and even found a tasteful brooch for Esme and a bottle of fine port for Carlisle.

But then five o'clock came around and I just couldn't face going home. I wasn't ready for it; I needed time for myself, time away from Edward's relentless optimism and his constant attentions. I also figured he might want to have sex, seeing as it had been a while, what with me being sick and all; the thought of making love with Edward made me shiver and tingle, but I couldn't afford to let go and lose myself that way—not when my mind and heart were battling so furiously and so viciously.

So I called Leah, and asked her if I could crash at her place. She didn't ask a single question, just raised a questioning eyebrow when I walked in the door and showed me the spare room. We had a silent dinner in front of the TV, and I clasped my hands together tightly the whole time to prevent myself from calling or texting Edward. I felt terrible about it, knowing that he would worry, but I couldn't do it. Not yet. Not when I didn't know what I would say.

I went to work the next morning in a borrowed dress that was slightly too short and definitely too tight— the leering stares I earned served as an unwelcome reminder of what kind of person I really was.

I worked hard, pouring myself into my current case with such determination and focus I got it all done by five-thirty. I left shortly thereafter, an unprecedented early finish,, which caused raised eyebrows and disapproving looks. But by that stage, I barely cared: I was exhausted, and wanted to go home.

When I arrived I was ready to apologise and grovel, and of course he was already there, playing the piano, looking gorgeous, dishevelled and tired. He looked at me so intensely I thought I might faint, and I lost it. I mumbled incoherently and he held me tight, and nothing he said was enough, and everything he said was wrong, and everything I did and said was absurd and misleading.

So here we are—a whole day has elapsed since our petty, nonsensical fight. Twenty-four hours spent silently tossing and turning in the same bed, wordlessly avoiding each other in the kitchen, awkwardly parting in the morning.

**{o}{o}{o}**

I shut down my laptop— he sent me a short text earlier, telling me he'd pick me up from work at six-thirty. We're going straight to Esme and Carlisle's, and I don't know what's worse, the thought of spending four hours in the car alone with Edward or the idea of the next three days cooped up in Cullen hell.

I get in the car and avoid looking at him, and yet all my other senses are alight with the nearness of him: the car is full of his scent, the stereo is playing Rachmaninov, and I know, by the way he moves, that he's on edge and tense. So unlike his usual self.

We drive in silence through the heavy evening congestion, the city choked with Christmas shopping traffic and commuters trying to get home. Once we get on to the motorway and the car picks up a steady, lulling rhythm, I finally let my body relax into the seat, and turn around to look at Edward.

He senses it, and turns his head imperceptibly—he's a safe driver, so a quick glimpse is all he allows himself. When he sees me looking at him, he smiles a little, tentatively, gauging my reaction. I lean my head back against the headrest, and instinctively place my hand over his thigh; I'm not ready for apologies or explanations, but I am too tired to keep fighting the urge to touch him.

He takes one hand off the steering wheel and places it over mine, wriggling his fingers slightly, letting me know my touch is welcome.

After a few, silent moments, once the physical contact has thawed some of the ice between us, he finally speaks. His voice is slightly croaky and unusually soft.

"Hey Rosie… did you write letters to Father Christmas when you were a little girl?"

I laugh despite myself at the unexpectedness of this question. With all the unsaid things between us, why does he care about this? Nonetheless, he's speaking to me and I'm grateful for the opening, so I answer back.

"No, I never did." And I could leave it at this, but suddenly I need him to know who I really am: just how bare and sad my past is; just how unlike his happy, healthy upbringing. "My parents were not really into the whole 'make Christmas special for your kids' thing. In fact, Jasper and I were just grateful to get a present at all… we didn't always get one, you know."

He squeezes my hand tightly, but doesn't say anything. I am immensely thankful for this, because I know the temptation to just make soothing, generic remarks is strong. I keep going.

"It's not like we were poor, or they couldn't afford it. They just couldn't be bothered, you know? As long as were clothed, fed, and got an education, they considered their job done."

Edward is silent for a while.

"I'm sorry, Rosie." His voice is thick with emotion and sadness, but not pity—thank God for that.

"Don't be. You know, I survived, and I'm fine. Luckily I've always had my brother, and anyway, there are much worse childhoods to be had. I'm fine, we're fine."

"I didn't mean I'm sorry for that, although obviously I am. I'm sorry that I never asked…. I'm sorry that I didn't know this about you… I know you don't talk to your parents, but I always got the impression you didn't want me to pry, so I didn't. But… I should have made more of an effort to get to know your past. To get to know you."

His words are serious, heavy; I am shocked and strangely moved.

"Edward… it's okay. I never talk about this…"

"No, Rosie. It's not okay. I have been blind and superficial. I thought loving you and worshipping you and showing you every day how much you mean to me was enough. I thought I'd counteract all your lows with exaggerated highs. I thought that, in time, you'd relax into our life together and we could just get along without worrying too much about our pasts…"

I squeeze his hand, unable to control my tears.

"Edward… you don't have to say all this… I've been awful to you. I know…"

He interrupts me, and I can see he's gripping the steering wheel tightly with his free hand.

"Rose… please give me another chance. Please allow me to try again… I want to know you, _really_ know you. All of you, everything that makes you who you are. Because you are wonderful, and the thought of losing you… God, Rosie, I don't think I could cope with that."

I'm crying hard now, sobbing.

Edward drives another few miles in silence before pulling into a service station. He shuts down the engine and turns around to take me into his arms. I cry hard, unattractively, tears and snot falling onto his shirt. The whooshy sound of the cars speeding past on the nearby road makes me dizzy and lulls me into a sense of displacement.

"It's okay, baby. It's okay… I'm sorry I failed you…" he keeps whispering.

"No, no, Edward you didn't fail me…" I manage to reply in between sobs. "If anything… it's me… I'm not good enough… not good enough for you, or for your family…"

He grabs my shoulders, and holds me apart from him. He looks into my eyes, and his face is solemn and serious.

"Please promise you will never, ever say anything like this again. You are a wonderful woman, you are wonderful _to me_ , and my family _will_ see just how special you are. I will stand up to my mother, I promise you. But promise me you'll try to give this another chance."

I tried to disentangle myself, to look away, but his grip is tight, fierce.

"Promise me, Rose."

I go limp in his arms, and look him in the eyes.

"I promise."


	10. 23rd December (Wednesday)

**Day 10, Prompt 19**

_Edward_

I stretch, enjoying the comfort of a clean bed and the luxury of sleeping until a natural awakening. Rose is still sleeping, a frown half-hidden behind golden hair. As I watch her, my habitual cheery mood slowly dissolves. I'm worried. Worried about her, worried about us, worried about what this morning is going to be like after the intense evening we had last night.

We'd arrived late in the evening, both of us exhausted after the emotional turmoil of the last few days and then the long drive. My mother had welcomed us both, holding me in a tight hug and kissing Rose on the cheek. Dad was genial as always, waving us both inside and pushing mince pies and cups of cocoa at us within minutes. By the time the pleasantries had been exchanged and the warm food consumed, both of us were almost falling asleep on the sofa.

My mouth twists as I remember the conversation that followed. I got to my feet and said I was going to bed, and offered my hand to Rose, thinking that she'd want to come with me. My mother had, of course, gone into full-on host mode, trying to show us to our rooms.

"Rosalie, you've got the guest room; first on the right at the top of the stairs."

"Guest room it is, then," I'd said.

"You've got your room, as always, Edward," my mother had said, with the pointed look that had hitherto always made me back down. This time however, a glance at Rose's face as she stared at the carpet and clung to my hand strengthened my resolve.

"No, mum. My room is whichever room my girlfriend is sleeping in. We share the same bed at home, we'll share the same bed when we're away. So I'll be in the guest room with her." My heart had been thumping loud enough to wake the dead, but still I somehow retained the courage to kiss my mother and nod goodnight to my father as Rose murmured goodnights to them both, gaze still firmly fixed on the floor.

So, here I am, lying in the guest bed of my parents' house, where I have never been before. Everything is familiar and everything is strange, all at once. I don't regret it for a moment, though. I told Rose I'd start making it up to her, and I meant it. I will make her realise just how much she means to me, and just how much she deserves to be adored.

Eventually I climb out of bed, and head for the shower. As I dress, Rose is still sleeping, but I don't want to leave her to wake up alone. I reach for the pad and pen that are always on the bedside table, and jot down a quick note.

_Rosie,_

_I'm downstairs. My phone's in my pocket – call me if you need me. For anything._

_You're beautiful when you frown in your sleep._

_I love you._

_Edward_

I creep out of the room and close the door, turning the handle before shutting it so as to be as quiet as possible. As I walk downstairs I can feel my heart beating faster, my palms starting to prickle with sweat as I anticipate seeing my parents again, this time without the false confidence produced by caffeine, tiredness and late-night determination.

Thankfully my mother is not in the kitchen, and my father is leafing through the paper while absent-mindedly eating an orange. He looks up at me as I come in, and I feel his eyes on me from behind the broadsheet as I collect utensils and make tea and toast.

Eventually he breaks the silence. "Are you okay, Edward?"

I don't reply, but my hand stills, knife suspended above the butter dish.

"Your mother was quite surprised at you last night. She didn't mean to upset you, you know."

"I know. I don't want to upset her either, but I'm not a child any more, Dad. I can't just let her decide what's best for me all the time."

As I'm speaking I hear someone behind me and realise with a sinking heart that it's almost certainly not Rose who's just come into the room.

"I do know best, Edward. I'm your mother." She speaks with such certainty it sparks something inside me, something that's been dormant all my life, and now threatens to explode unless I can try to control myself.

"No, Mum!" My voice is too harsh, too loud, and I have to take a deep breath before I go on, trying to keep to a steady pace and a calm tone. "No, you don't know best. Why can't you trust me to do what makes me happy? You convinced me to stay with Bella for far longer than was good for either of us, and now I've managed to find someone I think I could be happy with for the rest of my life you seem convinced that she's the work of the devil!"

She's trembling after my outburst, her hands shaking until she drops the box she's holding and baubles spill over the floor; a muted rainbow of tasteful co-ordination.

I sigh and hold out my arms. All I seem to be doing lately is upsetting the women in my life. As I hold my mother to me she speaks into my shoulder, her voice muffled.

"I'm sorry, Edward. You always seemed so happy with Bella, and she was so… familiar. Rosalie is very different, from Bella and from you. Sometimes she scares me. I don't want to see you hurt."

"She _is_ different, mum. But that's why I love her. Please, try to get along with her, for my sake if not hers." I look up, and Rose is standing just outside the kitchen door, clearly listening but unsure as to whether she should come in. I raise my voice a little to make sure she can hear me. "She means everything to me. Everything."

My mother looks round, feeling me straighten up as I look at Rose. Her voice is slightly shaky as she wishes Rose a good morning, then grumbles about the decorations that have rolled everywhere.

"Here, Esme, let me help you." Rose kneels and starts gathering baubles back into the box, the two of them retrieving them all quickly as I return to making breakfast. They head into the living room and start dressing the tree together, Rose passing strings of lights and glittering decorations under direction from my mother.

As I tuck into my toast, my father's attempts at conversation fall on deaf ears as I strain to hear the words exchanged between my girlfriend and my mother. They're talking quietly, sporadically, but they are talking. Rose plays with a knitted snowman that my grandmother made for me when I was young, and both she and my mother are suddenly laughing, and relief floods through me.

**{o}{o}{o}**

We spend the day in the sort of time-filling nonsense that people only seem to engage in at Christmas time. My father plays quizmaster and we all tackle the Christmas quiz in the newspaper; Rose impressing my parents with her depth of general knowledge. I find myself smiling more and more, revelling in her confidence as she corrects my father on a question.

There is still an undercurrent of tension, but I can see that everyone is making efforts to get along, and that gives me confidence and hope.

Rose even sides with my mother in disagreement with me at one point, and I argue for the wrong answer even after I've seen their point and conceded it to myself because it's so nice to see the two most important women in my life standing together. Even if they're both disagreeing with me. It makes me relax for the first time in days, and I start to feel that maybe Rose could be with me for the long haul, that maybe I haven't scared her off, that maybe she feels the same way as I do even if she doesn't realise it.


	11. 24th December (Thursday – Christmas Eve)

**Day 11, Prompt 22**

_Rosalie_

I'm exhausted. All we've done today was walking, drinking, and eating, and then walking some more; there was an endless stream of people we absolutely had to say "hi" to: coffee morning at Edward's Aunt Elizabeth's (an older, even more formidable version of Esme), lunch with the ladies from Esme's bridge club, tea with the vicar and finally, to top it all off, a cocktail party at home for Carlisle's staff.

Wherever we went, Esme introduced us as "my son Edward—you know, the scientist—and his girlfriend Rosalie". I could see it cost her a great deal of effort in the beginning, but as the day progressed she got used to the words rolling off her tongue, and by the time the last cocktail had been consumed, around six p.m., she even introduced me to Carlisle's secretary as "my son's beautiful girlfriend". It sounded sweet and almost comical in her slightly slurred, high-pitched party voice.

I can see that Edward was delighted at this development, and he looked at her proudly, with obvious love; and I could feel, if not exactly optimism, the beginnings of some respect for Esme, because I know it's not easy for her to be so nice to me, and I also know that her feelings toward me have not changed overnight. I admire that she's capable of putting her prejudices aside for the sake of her son. That's what a loving mother does, and that realisation warms me and softens me toward her.

It's been a whirlwind of activity and although I have been next to Edward all day we've hardly exchanged a word or a kiss, and now I'm craving his touch, and his scent, and his lips.

We're lying on the bed, in the darkened room, resting a little before dinner and Midnight Mass. Edward is so still and silent I think he might have fallen asleep, until his hand takes mine and brings it to his chest.

"Rose?" he says in a tentative, low voice.

"Mmmhhh." I answer him with a low hum, all I can muster right now.

He pulls me up toward him, so that my head is buried in his chest and he snakes an arm around me, holding me close to him.

"So nice and warm…" he murmurs in my hair

"Edward…" I turn my head up to look at him; I can barely make out his features in the almost complete darkness, but we're so close I can feel his breath on my face and I can sense his mouth coming closer to mine.

"Your lips look delicious," he says softly, before leaning in to kiss them lightly.

I close my eyes, and kiss him back, and it feels so lovely and safe to be here, in this house, in his arms. I could get used to this, and maybe I want to.

"Rosie…" Edward says, pulling back from our kiss, and cupping my face with his hand; his thumb tracing little circles on my jaw. "You know when we talked… in the car?"

"Yes." I close my eyes, because all I want to do is feel his body, and hear his voice, and I don't want to see the serious, deep eyes, so piercing they can penetrate the darkness.

"I've been thinking… you know, about what you said." He pauses for a second, and his hand leaves my face and settles on my stomach. "You think you can give this, give us another chance?"

I nod imperceptibly, but it's enough to spur him on.

"Because if you are… I want you to know that I am going to put everything I have into this, into us. I want you to know that, for me, this is… forever."

I nod again. I know; I think I've known for a long time what Edward's intentions are; it's just part of who he is: his passion, his commitment, his desire to do the right thing.

"I want to be with you, Rosalie. I want to be with you forever."

I open my eyes and look straight into his and, suddenly, it becomes crystal clear where he's going with this. Panic rises in my chest, and words erupt from me before I can control them.

"Edward… please… please don't ask me… I don't know what my answer would be…"

He shushes me gently, and holds me tighter, and runs his hand up and down my shoulder soothingly.

"I know. And that's why I'm not going to ask now, even though there's nothing in the world I want more. But you've got to know this… I will ask the question some day."

I bury my face in the chest, and I smile although he cannot see me.

"I know."

We don't say anything else after that, and after a little while I start to pull myself up and try to get off the bed. Edward grabs me and pulls me back on to it.

"Beautiful, what's your hurry?"

"I've got to go, Edward, help out your mum with clearing the kitchen, I promised."

He nuzzles my neck and whispers seductively into my ear: "Can't you stay a while longer, baby?"

"Well... I really shouldn't... I promised… Your mother will start to worry."

"I'll make it worth your while, baby…"

I give up the fight, and roll closer into him, hugging him tightly.


	12. 25th December (Friday – Christmas Day)

**Day 12, Prompt 23**

_Edward_

Christmas morning rolls around, and I wake first, as usual. I stretch, yawn, and look at Rose sleeping beside me. This time, there is no frown etched into her brow. She's impossibly beautiful, and I can't stop myself from leaning over and kissing her. When I've kissed her once I can't stop myself from kissing her again. I keep on kissing her, light, gentle kisses and caresses on her eyes, her cheeks, her forehead. Eventually all the attention wakes her, and she grumbles up at me even as she's smiling.

"Morning, gorgeous," I whisper, kissing her ear.

She squirms and giggles and tries to push me away, but I'm stronger than her, and I have no intention of going anywhere. I move over her a bit more, trapping her between my arms, one knee between hers and keep on kissing her, nibbling all the way down from her earlobe to her collarbone

"What do you want?" She's acting all coy, her face still turned away from mine, but she can't help smiling, and she's holding me close, her arms tightening if I move more than half an inch from her.

"What do you think I want?" I can feel my erection pressing into her belly, and I push my weight down on her, rocking my hips forward slightly so she's left with no illusions as to what it is I want.

"Oh, I don't know," she says, feigning ignorance.

"You don't?" She shakes her head coquettishly.

"Well, let me give you a clue, then." I rock my hips again, more forcefully this time, and it feels good. It's been too long since we've been like this, too much time spent in pointless arguments and misunderstandings. I have to stop myself from groaning in pleasure, and just squeeze my eyes shut instead.

She smiles at me. "Oh, I see. You want me to take care of that for you?" She slides a hand down my side, round under my hips and trails the tip of one finger along the side of my cock.

I draw in a deep, slightly shuddering breath, and feel bereft as her hand returns to my back. "Yes please."

"Well, okay then." She's smiling, and she pushes at me, getting me to roll off her and lie on my back. She pushes back the covers and lies there, looking at me. The room is warm, but the air is still cooler than under the blankets, and the difference is delicious. She just looks at me, and I can almost feel it as her gaze travels up from my feet. She pauses as she reaches my cock, and a small smile appears on her face, and I feel myself twitch in response.

"Oh, you like that?" she murmurs. "You like me looking at you?"

I can feel myself getting harder in response, and have to clench my fists to stop myself just rolling back on top of her and taking her, hard. I keep perfectly still as she reaches out and strokes my thigh, sliding up the inside of my leg, her fingers a hair's breadth from my balls as she presses gently and sweeps up towards my hip. She does it again and again, never once actually touching me, and I'm aching from want and need, dripping on to my belly and desperate for relief.

"Please, Rose." She looks up and grins at me, and moves over to straddle my hips, still taking care that she doesn't actually make contact. She hovers there for what seems like an age, then finally I feel her hand around me, and I breathe in sharply. She's not stroking, though, just positioning me where she wants me, and just as I'm about to start begging again she drops down on to me, hard and fast and hot and I nearly come there and then.

She moves quickly, and I'm lost in a sea of sensation, her hand covering my mouth to keep me quiet.

"You don't want to wake up your mother, now, Edward, do you? What will she think?"

We move together, faster and faster and I can't help it, I can't wait for her, and I come hard, her hands hot on my lips as she muffles my groaning. She joins me almost immediately, throwing her head back with her mouth open and eyes shut as I start to regain consciousness.

She falls forward on to my chest, both of us breathing hard.

"Merry Christmas, Edward," she whispers, smiling. I grin back at her, too breathless to laugh.

"Merry Christmas, baby."

We lie together, smiling and cuddling and exchanging soft words until eventually we can't avoid the time and the sounds of my parents moving around downstairs any more, and have to get up.

**{o}{o}{o}**

My mother is singing carols in the kitchen as she peels potatoes ready for Christmas dinner. I sneak past the open door into the living room, and settle myself at the piano, the instrument I learned on as a child comfortingly familiar. I wait until my mother reaches the chorus, and then I join in, playing along with her. She stumbles over the first line, surprised at the sudden accompaniment, but then she's back, sounding more joyful and singing louder. We carry on like this for another couple of carols, me playing in one room, and mum singing next door. When we get on to the third song, my father's deep voice rumbles through from the kitchen, and by the second verse Rose is standing behind me, one arm around my shoulders as I play and we listen to my parents singing together.

I finish the song with a flourish and Rose tugs at my arm, drawing me to the door. She points and mouths "look". I peer out of the door, and I can see my parents hugging. My non-demonstrative, formal parents are hugging in the kitchen, surrounded by potato peelings. I look round at Rose, astonished, and she's beaming at me. Seeing my parents like this has surprised the life out of me, and suddenly I have to talk about our future with Rose, I have to make sure she knows I wasn't joking yesterday; I have to make sure she knows just how much she means to me.

I lead her over to the Christmas tree, and point at a small box that looks incongruous nestled among the branches. I step round behind her, my chin resting on top of her head and my hands folded around her waist, and whisper in her ear.

"It was going to come with a question today. But that can wait. I just wanted you to see it, to be sure… to know what you've got to look forward to. I love you, Rosalie. I love you with all my heart."

She opens the small box with trembling hands and stares at the ring nestled inside, the twinkling lights on the tree beautiful as their reflections dance in the diamond I let her look for a few minutes, then gently take the box from her, and pocket it. She turns in my arms and looks up at me with tears in her eyes.

"Next time you see that, I will be on my knees and asking you to marry me." I smile down at her and wipe away her tears with my thumb. "I love you. I love you so much."

She opens her mouth to answer me, her eyes betraying her nervousness and panic—but I press my fingers on her soft lips.

"Shhhhh…. You don't have to say anything right now. All in good time."

I hold her close and we kiss softly, gently. "It can wait. We have all the time in the world. For the minute, all I'm going to say is Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

"Oh Edward." She's finally found her voice, though it sounds thick with emotion as she wraps her arms around my neck and talks into my shoulder. "Merry Christmas."


End file.
